At four o’clock in the afternoon Patsy rubbed her eyes, yawned and
raised her head from her pillow.
“Dear me!” she sighed, “I’m tired yet, but this sleeping in the daytime
is unnatural. I wonder if Beth is awake.”
She went to the door of the adjoining room, opened it and found her
cousin dressing.
“Do you suppose anyone else is up?” she inquired.
“See there,” replied Beth, pointing through the window.
Patsy saw. Mr. Runyon was seated on a garden bench in earnest
conversation with Mildred Travers.
“Didn’t he go home this morning, after the excitement was over?” she
asked.
“No,” replied Beth. “Mr. and Mrs. Hahn drove their car home, but our
interesting neighbor at the north, Mr. Bul Run, declared there was
nothing at his own ranch half so enticing as a bed here. He’s a
bachelor, it seems, and leads rather a lonely life. So Arthur gave him a
room and he went to bed; but it seems he has had his sleep out and is
indulging in other recreations.”
Patsy was eyeing the couple in the garden.
“Mr. Runyon seems to have struck up a friendship with your protégé
Mildred,” she observed.
“Yes,” answered Beth. “You know he was shut up in the wall with her and
Inez for awhile and the adventure must have made them feel well
acquainted. Wasn’t that imprisonment a most peculiar thing, Patsy?”
“Very peculiar. I haven’t had much time to think about it, for as soon
as Toodlums was safe in Louise’s arms I went to bed. But it occurs to me
to wonder how Mildred Travers knew so much of the secrets of this absurd
old house and why she ventured to explore the hidden rooms in our
absence. Put that with the fact that she lived in these parts as a girl,
and with her eagerness to come out here—don’t you remember her fervent
‘thank heaven’?—and it seems the whole mystery isn’t unraveled yet; it’s
only getting more tangled.”
Beth was thoughtful for a time.
“I am sure Mildred will have some explanation to make,” she said
presently. “Don’t let us judge her just yet, Patsy. And I advise you to
get dressed, for there’s Louise wheeling the baby, and perhaps everyone
else is downstairs but us.”
“Louise and baby both slept all through that awful night,” remarked
Patsy, again yawning. “No wonder they’re up and around and looking
bright and happy.” But she took her cousin’s hint and dressed so rapidly
that she descended the stairs only a few moments after Beth did.
Uncle John, the major and Arthur were in the court, smoking and sipping
coffee. The events of the past night were still being earnestly
discussed by them and much speculation was indulged in concerning the
rooms in the hollow wall and the uses to which they had been put during
the pioneer days when Cristoval constructed them, and even afterward
when his son, the last owner, had occupied the premises.
“The entire ranch,” said Arthur, “as well as this house, was sold by the
executors appointed by the court, for it seems that Cristoval had no
heirs in this country. The money was sent over to Spain and divided
among a host of relations, the executors were discharged, and that ended
the matter as far as the law is concerned. But I am sure the secret of
the wall was at that time unknown to any, for otherwise the furniture in
those narrow rooms, some of which is expensive and valuable on account
of its unique carving, and the bins of wine and other truck, would have
been sold with the other ‘personal possessions.’ I bought this place of
a man who had purchased it at the executors’ sale but never has lived in
it. All the rooms were stripped bare, which goes to prove that the
hidden recesses in the walls were unknown. Now, the question is, do I
legally own the contents of that wall, or don’t I?”
“I stepped into the rooms, this morning, with the others, but merely
glanced around a bit,” said Mr. Merrick. “I’ve an idea you may
rightfully claim whatever is there. The value of such old, odd pieces is
arbitrary and they wouldn’t total enough at an auction sale to bother
about. My idea, Arthur, is that you remove whatever you care to retain,
stop up the rat holes, and then seal up the place forever.”
“I suppose,” remarked the major, “those hollow places in the wall were
of real value in the days of wild Indians and murdering highwaymen. But,
as John Merrick says, they’re of no use to anyone now, but rather a
source of danger.”
“Was that door left open?” asked Patsy.
“Yes; and I put a brace against it, so it couldn’t close and shut us
out,” replied Arthur.
“That doesn’t matter; Mildred knows the way in,” said Beth. “The whole
trouble was that Inez closed the door behind them and they couldn’t
manage to get out again.”
Mr. Merrick sipped his coffee reflectively.
“That girl,” said he, “ought to explain how she knows so much—and so
little.”
“And what she was doing in the secret rooms,” added the major.
“She’ll do that,” piped a high voice, and in sauntered Mr. Runyon and
sat down to pour himself some coffee. “I’ve just left
Miss—er—er—Travers, and she has decided to tell you all her whole story,
frankly and without reservation, and then she wants to ask your advice.”
“Whose advice?” demanded Arthur.
“Everybody’s advice. She asked mine, a little while ago, and I told her
to put it up to the crowd. The poor thing has had a sad history and
there’s a bit of romance and tragedy connected with it; but she has been
quite blameless. I haven’t known you people long, but I’ll bank on your
generosity and fairness, and that’s what I told the poor girl.”
“Where is she now?” asked Patsy.
“In the garden with Mrs. Weldon and Toodlums. They’ll all be here
presently.”
The little group remained silent and thoughtful until Louise entered
wheeling the baby in her cab and followed by Mildred Travers. The
nurse’s face was white and troubled but she had acquired a new
attractiveness for the reason that her eyes had softened and were now
pleading instead of defiant.
Inez came running from the nursery to take baby, but Louise would not
let little Jane go. Although she had escaped much of the past night’s
misery, thanks to Dr. Knox’s quieting powders, the young mother was
still unnerved and liked to have the child where she could see it. So
Inez sat on a bench and held Jane, who was the least concerned of anyone
over her recent peril and fortunate escape.
The court was shady, cool and quiet. Those assembled eyed Mildred
curiously and expectantly, so that she was really embarrassed at first.
Beth, who felt in a measure responsible for this waif of a great city,
because she had been instrumental in bringing her here, gently led
Mildred to a beginning of her story by asking a few questions that
afforded the girl an opening.
The entire party listened gravely to the recital, for only Inez, among
those present, had ever heard any part of the strange tale before.
Mildred told practically the same story she had related to the Mexican
girl the night before, but went more into details and explained more
fully her girlhood acquaintance with Señor Cristoval.
“He was an unusual man,” said she; “aged and white-haired, as I remember
him, and always dressed in white flannels, which threw his dark skin
into sharp relief. He lived alone in the house, having but one
man-servant to do all the work, cook his meals and cater to his
slightest whim.”
“Miguel Zaloa,” said Inez in a low voice.
“Cristoval was not popular,” said Mildred, “for he loved money so well
that he was reputed to be a miser. It was this love of money, I think,
that induced him to go into partnership with my father in his illegal
smuggling enterprises. Cristoval furnished the money and when my father
had slipped across the border with his bales of rare laces, they were
hidden in the hollow wall until they could be forwarded to San Francisco
and sold.
“And this brings me to a relation of my present interest in this house,”
she continued. “When we escaped from California a large lot of very
valuable Mexican laces which belonged exclusively to my father was
hidden in the wall. The sale of a former lot of smuggled goods had
resulted in a large profit and Cristoval had received a bank draft for
the amount, one half of which was due my father. When we last saw
Cristoval at San Bernardino, before we left for New York, he promised my
father to cash the draft and send him the proceeds. This he never did,
although he advanced my father, at that time, a sum of money from other
sources to pay our expenses until we could establish ourselves in the
east.
“To avoid suspicion, my father always allowed Cristoval to bank the
partnership money, drawing on the rich Spaniard from time to time for
what he required. Father told me that altogether Cristoval owed him nine
thousand dollars, besides the bale of laces, valued at ten thousand
more. He wrote many times to demand this money, using a cipher they had
arranged between them, but his letters were never answered. I know now
that Cristoval died soon after we went to New York, so whoever got the
letters, being unable to read the secret cipher, of course ignored them.
“Just as Leighton was being taken to prison, the last time I ever saw
him, he told me to find some way to come here and get the money. He said
that if Cristoval was dead, as he then suspected, the secret of the wall
was still safe, for the old man had vowed never to disclose it. He
thought I would find the laces still hidden in the wall, and perhaps the
money.”
“Did you look to see, while you were there?” asked Arthur Weldon.
“Yes. There is no evidence of any property that I could rightfully
claim.”
It was a strange recital, and a fascinating one to those who heard it.
“Who would think,” said Patsy, “that in this prosaic age we would get so
close to a real story of smuggling, hidden treasure and secret recesses
in walls? It smacks more of the romantic days of past centuries.”
“We must not forget,” replied Louise, “that of all our numerous states
California has the most romantic history. It wasn’t so long ago that the
Spanish don flourished in this section and even yet it is more Spanish
than American except in the big cities.”
“As for smuggling,” added Runyon, “that is going on to-day—as merrily as
in the days of the famous Leighton, if on a smaller scale. I’ve some
choice cigars over at my ranch that have never paid duty, and I’ve an
order with the smuggler for more. So, after all, there’s nothing very
astonishing in Mildred Leighton’s story.”
“The wall we have practical evidence of,” said Uncle John. “I suppose it
will hold its secret rooms for many years to come, for these adobe
dwellings are practically fire-proof and are built to defy time.”
“But about Mildred’s fortune,” cried Patsy. “Don’t you suppose it is
hidden, after all, some place in the wall?”
“From what I have heard of Cristoval,” said Arthur in a reflective tone,
“he was not considered a dishonest man, but rather miserly and
grasping.”
“My father,” explained Mildred, “trusted him fully until we went away
and could get no answer to his letters. The old Spaniard was very fond
of me, also, and he would hold me in his arms and say that one day I
would be a rich lady, for my father and he were both making my fortune.
I was very young, as you know, but I never forgot that statement.”
“Suppose,” suggested the major, “we make another and more thorough
search of those secret rooms.”
“We will do that,” replied Arthur promptly. “It is too late to undertake
the task to-night, but we will begin it right after breakfast to-morrow
morning. Inez, I wish you would slip down to the quarters and ask Miguel
to come and help us. Tell him to be here at nine o’clock.”
The girl nodded, gave the baby to Mildred and stole quietly out of the
court.